


scratch

by beccastanz



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Condoms, Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Dom/sub Undertones, Eating out, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingering, Humiliation, Inappropriate use of a pool cue, Light Dom/sub, Mildly Dubious Consent, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, No Pregnancy, One Night Stands, PIV, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Safe to Read if Triggered by Pregnancy, Spanking, Teasing, Verbal Humiliation, extensive description of a pool game, hookup, i tried to limit the use of the word balls, it doesn’t go into any holes I promise, just the nature of a hookup but I promise everything is very much enjoyed, like a stupid amount, safe sex, three finger fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:02:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25295863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beccastanz/pseuds/beccastanz
Summary: “Do you play?”He smirks. She wants to kiss it off of him.“Sometimes,” he says noncommittally, and now she’s intrigued and feeling frisky, willing to go out on a limb for more of this man, whatever he was willing to give.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 126
Kudos: 673





	scratch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vuas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vuas/gifts).



> Y’all: “So Becca, now that you finished your other WIP, you’re gonna update the Rocky Horror fic, right?”
> 
> Me: “...here’s some billiards smut bye.”
> 
> As usual, blame and thank [vuas.](https://twitter.com/thevuaslog)
> 
> PS a “scratch” is when you hit a ball in and the cue ball also goes in. Just like. FYI.

Rey’s not quite sure how it happened—but she’s a regular now.

Solo’s is not necessarily the most popular bar in town. Her fellow college kids prefer the deadening beats of techno from the trendier spots down the street, or the speakeasy types with an excuse to get all dressed up and drop their parents’ money on twenty-five dollar specialty cocktails. A pool hall is not exactly “cool.”

And yet here she is, another Friday night with a four dollar beer, scoping out the competition—and, perhaps, the bartender.

No. Not the bartender. Decidedly not the bartender.

Maybe the bartender. It’s just, he—Ben, according to the name tag always pinned to his too-tight t-shirts—was...handsome. Intriguing, even. But he’d never made a pass, never tried his hand at her and so she wrote him off as disinterested, aloof.

That _maybe_ made her want him more. 

Solo’s is her side hustle—she can nurse one beer all night, challenge the boys who don’t know any better to a friendly wager, and come out ahead on her investment. No one ever suspects that the little thing in the too short shorts will be able to decimate them in a match. It’s usually the tourists, but even fellow regulars often fail to learn from their mistakes.

She’s never lost.

And at the end of each night, when she closes out her tab with the hottest man she’s ever seen—long dark hair she wants to touch, soft lips she wants to pull between her teeth, hands she wants to feel crack against her flesh—she drops him a ten, and he smiles, rarely saying a word beyond “good game.”

She is a nice tipper, after all—why would he stop her fun?

Tonight is uncharacteristically slow, unfortunately for her. Tourist season is coming to an end, and the nights’ patrons have all made the mistake of playing her before—some more than once.

She tries to goad them, “just one game” she teases, slightly bent over for a fleeting glimpse of attempted cleavage in her red crop top, ass up in her tattered black shorts, but they wave her off.

“Not after last time, Rey, you cleaned me out.”

She pouts, and not even _that_ works.

Frustrated, she does something out of the ordinary—and gets a second beer.

Ben looks as surprised as she feels when she settles into a stool.

“No one left to swindle?”

His voice is panty-melting; there’s simply no other way to describe it. Suddenly, the few words she’s heard from him in her months of patronage are nowhere near enough. She wants him to keep talking forever.

“I’m not swindling,” she offers, an attempt at flirting emboldened by the coverage of her beer glass, “I’m winning fair and square.”

He hums in acknowledgment, wiping a damp rag across the bar top, and she can’t resist a look at his arms, corded, veined, thick with muscle— _god the things he could do with those arms_ —she snaps her head back, maybe too abruptly.

Is he smirking?

She doesn’t want to let him go, doesn’t want him out of her sight despite the fact that he’s barely acknowledged her until tonight. So she tries something.

“Do you play?”

He smirks. She wants to kiss it off of him.

“Sometimes,” he says noncommittally, and now she’s intrigued and feeling frisky, willing to go out on a limb for more of this man, whatever he was willing to give.

“You should play me,” she offers, unconsciously pulling her bottom lip between her teeth, simultaneously wanting him to say yes and hoping he refused, unwilling to bear false hope at his interest.

He pauses his movements on the bar top, stillness piercing as patrons mull about, some headed home for the night given the late hour, nearly closing time.

“I could,” he starts, and her heart leaps when he brings up his gaze to meet hers, “but I know you’re not used to losing.”

Oh.

So _that’s_ how it was going to be.

Good.

“You’re right,” and there’s no mistaking her tone now, heat behind her words, “and I don’t plan to start now.”

His smirk widens into a full-blown grin, still with a hint of sardonic attitude, and heat blooms in her belly.

“Well that’s a challenge if I ever heard one,” he surmises. “You got time tonight?”

She nods.

“I have to close up but we can play after that.”

Oh. So the bar would be empty.

“You sure I’m allowed in after hours?” Rey goads, both flirting and curious as to how the bartender had such privileges.

“I think the owner would be more than happy to oblige,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder.

That’s when Rey finally looks at the liquor license hanging behind the bar.

**Ben Solo**

He was the owner.

Even more interesting now was the fact that he let her get away with her little game, wiping the floor with his patrons.

Maybe he liked to watch her do it.

Maybe he wanted her to do it to him.

Though, there was another part of her that tingled at the possibility that this man, clearly strong, absolutely captivating, with a voice like espresso—dark, rich, bitter—could absolutely ruin her.

She was willing to see how the night panned out.

Her second beer slowly dwindles as she watches him work. He moves expertly between patrons, refilling glasses, mixing cocktails and smoothly cutting people off without missing a beat. He is almost...graceful in his movements, a joy to watch as she considers what else his hands were expert at.

Perhaps she’d soon find out.

Last call comes and goes. Everyone leaves.

Now it’s just them.

Rey swallows the last sip of beer just as he turns the key in the lock.

The bar is dim, the only sources of light a few strategically placed lamps since the blinds were now drawn shut.

She puts the empty glass down on the bar and hops off the stool, slowly making her way to the pool tables in the back. If she’s not mistaken, she can feel the burn of his eyes on her ass as she moves.

“So,” she starts, grabbing a cue and chalk, “what’s the wager?”

He seems to take a moment to consider her question before walking over to the rack, nearly invading her space as he grabs a cue of his own.

His voice is closer than it’s ever been, caging her against the cue rack with his arms on either side, a head above her when he whispers, “I don’t want to take your money.” 

She tilts her chin up, challenging.

“Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t be taking yours.”

His smirk is back.

“But I’ll make another suggestion,” she continues, pulling out from under him to put a safe distance between them—one pool table’s worth of space, in fact—before she has the courage to get it out. Two beers aren’t enough to provide a buzz, but she’s hoping to use them to excuse her lewdness.

“I’m listening,” he encourages, and she tries to hide her deep breath as she collects herself, finally meeting his eyes across the table.

“Winner gets to do whatever they want to the loser.”

She watches his eyes widen, hears him suck in a breath, startled at her brazenness. Did she fuck up? Was he going to run away screaming, kick her out, tell her she was a dirty little—

“Okay.”

She exhales, relief flooding her senses along with something deeper, hotter, something that made the fabric of her red crop top feel like too much weight on her skin, made the seam of her shorts enticing as she shifted her thighs.

Every word feels like a dare, an escalation, each of them pushing to see how far the other will go. 

She’s not going to be the one to back down, not even when he has the audacity to say—

“I won’t go easy on you.”

She’s pretty sure he’s talking about more than the game.

“Good.”

He reaches across the table to remove the rack, balls in a neat triangle, ready to be spread in disarray.

“Would you like to break?” he asks.

_Under his hands? God yes._

She keeps that to herself, instead simply nodding as she lines up the cue ball.

When she leans over to take the shot, she knows he can see down her shirt, probably just enough to see she’s braless but not much more than that. Now she was imagining him yanking it over her head, pushing her into the table as he sucked one little pink nub into his—

No. She needed to focus.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t tease.

She wiggles a bit more than strictly necessary as she lines up the shot, wondering if he could see just the barest edge of a nipple as she shifts just right and expertly hits the cue ball, scattering color across the green velvet. A solid purple four sinks into a corner pocket, and she can’t help a smile.

“I’m solids.”

“Guess that makes me stripes,” he replies calmly, seemingly unbothered at her early lead.

She sinks the green six with ease after she props up on the wooden edge, ass balanced precariously on the smooth surface, showing off the bit that escapes the bottom of her shorts as she smacks the cue ball from above to land the shot.

“Impressive,” he offers, and she can’t help a blush under the praise.

“I know,” she responds to cover her reaction, refusing to let him see his effect.

She nearly sinks another solid, but in the moment before she strikes, she sees Ben across the table—he flexes his arm against his cue, muscles bulging, and for the briefest moment, she’s distracted, off by a single degree in her shot, enough to just barely miss sinking the ball.

She can’t help a huff of frustration as she straightens up. It was an amateur shot, and she missed because of his damn arms.

“That’s all right, sweetheart,” he chides, and even more color rises to her cheeks, impossible to hide. “There’s still time.”

“Just take your shot,” she bites, and his eyes light up.

“With pleasure.”

How had she missed the fact that he was so sarcastic, so clever, so fucking infuriating that she couldn’t decide if she wanted to be at his feet or have him at hers? A newfound determination struck her as he sunk the first two with ease, eleven and thirteen in opposite pockets. When he lines up for the third, she makes a show of dropping her chalk, and just as he pulls the cue back, she bends over, ass directly in his line of sight.

He sinks his twelve—and her burgundy seven. She’s nearly gleeful as she straightens back up to see this glorious turn of events, a delicious mix of frustration and arousal passing over his features, eyes darkened.

She’s long since sobered up, but can’t help clinging to the excuse as she gets another idea.

“I propose a new rule,” she says, looking directly into his eyes with a wicked smirk. “If one of us sinks the other person’s ball, they have to take off an article of clothing.”

“And when exactly do you propose that rule go into effect?”

She pretends to consider for a moment, finger tapping at her chin before she says “five minutes ago.”

“I see. And this rule applies to both of us?”

She nods.

And then, in one smooth motion, he props his cue against the table and strips off his shirt.

Rey instantly regrets her boldness.

He is absolutely stacked, more than his shirts could ever hint at, the broadest chest she’s ever seen complete with washboard abs she wants to outline with her tongue. She actually, literally, gulps.

He traces the movement of her throat with a passion she’s never seen nor felt directed at her, and her knees nearly buckle under the intensity.

“Your shot,” he says as he crosses his arms over his chest.

Big.

Big big big.

Her mind is blank except for big.

Why does he seem bigger without a shirt? Was the rest of him big too?

Her shorts dampen, thong hardly doing much to contain the growing wetness between her thighs. She’s grateful for her choice of color—hopefully the black would allow her some amount of dignity.

Even the walk around the table provides a surprising amount of friction, and she stifles a moan at the minuscule contact—when did she get so desperate?

Four balls left.

She can do this.

One and five drop with ease as she returns to the right headspace, ache forgotten, overtaken by a determination to win.

Only two and three are left for her, and she and Ben seem to realize her predicament at the same time; blocking each of her remaining balls is one of his. She is almost certain to sink one if she takes a shot.

It’s clearly the universe fucking her over for her creative new rule. 

_Don’t dish it if you can’t take it..._

She lines herself up for her best chance, but before she can strike, Ben moves toward her, reaching for her arms, bare chest getting closer and closer until she can feel his body heat radiating.

“You know, there’s a way you could—”

He’s too close now, she’s sweating, can’t concentrate when all she wants to do is feel his hands on every part of her, not just her arms.

So she pulls away.

“I can figure it out myself,” she bites, yanking away from temptation as she resets.

He, to his credit, steps back without a fight, recognizing her need for self sufficiency. 

She thinks, perhaps, if she angles just right…

Three goes down.

So does nine. 

Shit.

She turns to Ben and he looks like the cat that got the cream, positively gleeful at her current state.

When she shoots daggers, he raises his arms in a “don’t blame me” gesture.

“I tried to help.”

“Sure you did,” she replies, disbelieving. 

Silence again.

He waits. Doesn’t push. Just stands silently, rocking the cue back and forth in front of his body as he waits, faking nonchalance that doesn’t reach his eyes—those are clearly hungry, waiting for newly bared skin.

She figures he’s expecting her to remove her top.

Rey is all about subverting expectations.

When she sets down her cue, she sees him tense ever so slightly before resuming his back and forth motion, leaned against a second table.

When she reaches for the button at her fly, he freezes.

“Rey,” he chokes out.

“Yes?”

She pulls down the zipper.

“Rey,” and now it’s a warning, a plea, a “don’t start what you’re not going to finish.”

“Fair’s fair,” she says, and she slides black denim down her thighs, pulling the shorts off over her little black sneakers, leaving her cunt covered by no more than a scrap of red lace around her hips, disappearing between the high globes of her ass—not that he can see that part yet, since she hasn’t turned around.

“Your shot,” she whispers, wondering if her wetness can be seen across the room.

This time, he gulps.

She watches him re-chalk the tip of his cue, blue powder on his fingertips as he steels himself for his turn. When he rolls his shoulders back, she has to suppress a whimper at the ripple of muscles across his chest. The corner of his lip quirks up when he notices her attention.

“See something you like?”

Bastard.

“Maybe. Do you?”

He nods, tight-lipped as he leans over the table to take his shot. She lets him concentrate for a bit, secure in her lead with only the two left before she goes for the eight ball. 

Fourteen sinks into the middle pocket. Easily.

Too easily.

Ten and fifteen taunt on the now nearly empty felt. She rests her bare ass against the table behind her as she watches him line up for a trick shot. Ten is stuck behind her last ball, and fifteen is blocked by the eight. He seems relatively unbothered by that fact, chest pulled taut as he sits up on the edge of the table, pulling his cue nearly vertical as he sets up the shot.

The tip hovers over fifteen as he lines up to hit the edge.

He brings it down in a quick motion.

The burgundy stripe sets off in a perfect spin, neatly avoiding the 8 ball as it curves around in an arc and lands in the closest pocket.

Rey is breathless. And soaked.

“I could’ve shown you how to do it,” he says from his position on the table, all cockiness and shiny chest under the dim lamplight.

It doesn’t feel worth it to argue, not when they’re so close to the end, not when she has one card left to play.

He moves around the table to set up a similar shot, his last ball before the eight.

The moment he’s about to strike, she spins and hoists herself onto the table, directly in his line of sight, bare skin revealed on either side of soaked red lace.

He fumbles.

Two and ten drop into the pocket.

When she flicks her head over her shoulder, he’s almost...seething. It should be scary to be looked upon with such focused precision, intent behind his eyes clear, but all it does is send more wetness into the rapidly overflowing fabric of her panties.

She hops down, nonchalant.

“Pants,” is all she says as she moves to sink the 8 ball, the final hurdle between her and victory.

She doesn’t even look as he strips since his position is behind her as she sets up the shot. She can’t see him, which is probably good for her focus as she bends nearly in half to line up her cue. 

She knows he can see what’s waiting at the apex of her thighs, can probably finally see just how ready she is.

She wonders—if she were to turn around, might she be greeted with the sight of tented briefs?

But there was no time to wonder as she called her shot, only vaguely aware of him steadily getting closer in her focus.

“Eight ball, corner pocket,” she calls, ignoring a shift in the air as she pulls back her cue.

Just as she’s about to push forward, she feels a tongue press lace, a hot stripe licked from clit to hole through her panties.

She hits too hard and her chest falls against the velvet, cue falling from her grip and crashing to the ground.

The eight ball falls into the corner pocket—but so does the cue ball.

“Scratch,” she feels murmured between her thighs, and an uncontrollable shudder passes through her.

“Why the _fuck_ would you do that?” Rey asks, intending stern but achieving breathless.

“Well, I had chalk on my hands,” he explains calmly from his kneeled position, like someone who hadn’t just tasted her cunt. “Didn’t want to get you dirty.”

“That’s not fair,” she whines, unsure if she’s talking about the game or the fact that he removed his mouth.

“I wasn’t aware that we were playing fair,” he whispers, and now he pulls the lace to the side, exposing her heated flesh to the cool air of the bar.

She lets her head fall to the table, resting on one side as she avoids the temptation to beg.

“Someone’s eager,” he teases, and before she can get out a retort, he licks again, this time skin on skin, delicious pressure over the expanse of her cunt before he grabs her ass to spread her further with a murmured “fuck it.”

There’s probably smudges of blue on her cheeks but she couldn’t care less as he dives in, tongue separating to allow him deeper access. He trails across her inner and outer lips, teasing with periodic dips between her folds to prod at her entrance, all of it creating a filthy mix of wet sounds as Rey pounds her fists against the felt.

“Fucking—shit, Ben, I—fuck, you don’t have to—”

He pulls away and lands a single slap against her ass, effectively cutting her off.

She immediately wants more of _that,_ but she’s finding it hard to make the words, only letting out a guttural moan at the sting.

“I’m not doing this because I have to. I won. I’m doing it because I want to.”

He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, to want to give this to her, like he’s not shattering her idea of what a man could be as she recalls the sparse set she’s been with who have performed this act, all needing to be coaxed and all unenthusiastic. He could not be further from her perception as he resumes his ministrations, mouthing at her like she’s his last meal and he wants to savor every bite.

His tongue prods her hole again and it gives way easily—she’s been wet since he locked the door, on edge since he stripped off his shirt, and when he moves again to suck her clit into his mouth, she knows she’s going to come, just like this, bent over the pool table as the object of months of fantasties eats her out with glee, soaked lace digging into her ass.

“Fuck, ‘m close, Ben, please—”

He presses his tongue against her _just_ right and she’s clenching around nothing, waves of pleasure coursing through her as her legs shake, only staying up from his arms bent around her, hands still holding her apart and elbows on either side.

She’s breathing hard as she comes down, unable to do more than angle her head back to look at him. He pushes up from his crouched position, moving to the side to take in the sight of her.

His mouth shines under the lamplight—she blushes when she realizes it’s her doing.

He leans down now, close enough to whisper, “was that okay?”

She nods with as much enthusiasm as she can muster, then can’t help but realize the massive tent at her eyeline.

He’s hard, and, from the looks of it, well endowed. And she wants to make him feel good too.

From her position on the table, she makes a feeble attempt to reach for him, but a hand on her wrist stops her.

“There’s time for that later,” he promises, and _fuck_ where have the guys like this been hiding?

“I want to try something,” he continues, “if you’re willing.”

He looks nervous now, like he’s afraid of scaring her off.

Little does he know just how down she is to try practically anything in this moment, how she’s done things with other boys that still make her blush.

But now she knows no one could hold a candle to this man, and she is ready to relearn what pleasure can be.

He picks up his pool cue, the taper thin at the top. She has just enough brainpower left to see where this is going and has to clench her thighs together to alleviate the sudden rush.

“Can I hit you with this?”

She nods so fast she thinks her neck might break, and he beams at her eagerness.

“You’re a desperate thing aren’t you?”

She keeps nodding, adding an emphatic “fuck yes.”

“Good. I’ll teach you to be good, little fucking tease you are,” and _wow has he got a mouth on him and why hadn’t she done this sooner?_ “Always walking around my bar in those fucking shorts and little shirts. You were just begging for me to notice you, huh?”

She just keeps nodding, but then the first hit of the cue lands and she yelps.

“Use your words,” he demands, and Rey thinks she must’ve died because this had to be heaven.

“Yes, yes Ben—fuck, I wanted you to notice me, please just—”

A second hit, a new mark on the opposite cheek.

“I think it’s safe to say I noticed.”

He’s so composed—even if the image of him in nothing but his socks and briefs could be considered comical, his tone is anything but, and Rey just wants more.

He brings down one more hit, this one spanning both cheeks, lace falling against the mark in a display of overstimulation as she nearly sobs.

“Hm,” he offers as he observes the blooming red lines across her ass, “you sure you weren’t stripes?”

She’d laugh if she weren’t so desperate to come again.

He seems to recognize that three was enough, strangely perceptive for a one night stand as he lays his hands over the marks, coaxing out little whimpers, soothing the ache.

“I’ll be right back sweetheart, don’t fucking move a muscle,” he whispers before he pulls away completely, nearly running away from her toward the back room, and she can’t figure out what the hell his deal is until he comes back, nearly slipping in socks, with clean hands and a gold foil packet.

Thank fuck one of them was responsible.

He throws the condom next to her head before he crouches over her form, bringing two fingers to her entrance. She can tell he wants to be patient.

Fuck patience.

She cants her hips back, forcing his fingers inside of her with ease. His composure finally cracks as he chokes out a gasp, amazed at how easily she accepts the intrusion.

“You’re fucking soaked,” he observes, and all she can do is sit up on her elbows and nod, doing her best to thrust back against his fingers.

“Please, Ben, fuck me,” she gasps between thrusts, knowing his hand must be covered in her arousal.

“I think you need to come one more time first if you’re going to take all of me,” he says matter-of-factly, like her orgasms were nothing more than a weather report.

But she’s not going to refuse.

He manages a third finger, taking over the job of thrusting as his other hand finds her clit, rubbing deliciously tight circles until she’s clenching again at her peak, this time around him, still not the part she craves but a welcome addition, another rush of wetness coating her thighs as she comes back down.

“So good, Rey, perfect little slut for me,” he whispers in her ear as he works her through it, and her cunt valiantly attempts to clench again at the words.

She hears him remove his briefs and gets excited, even more so when he reaches for the condom. She pushes her ass out in what she hopes is an appealing fashion, but is shocked when he pulls her up, spinning her to face him as he seats her on the very edge of the table.

“I wanna see you,” he says simply, and her heart clenches—but that was a problem for another time considering just how precariously she was perched on the table. She tries to scoot back, but he pulls her waist with an arm wrapped around her back, locking her against him and still balanced on the edge.

“I’m not gonna pay to re-felt the table just because you’re a dirty whore who can’t help but drip all over herself.”

Her brain empties, nothing left but arousal and want at his admonition as she buries her face in his neck—a feeble attempt to avoid the embarrassment of him seeing her flush at his words.

He wraps her legs around him and finally, _finally_ thrusts into her. His careful preparation makes it almost too easy, but the stretch is still there, his cock still more than three fingers as she yields around him, deliriously, deliciously full as he wastes no time starting to thrust.

She’s never felt this full, never been pushed to such limits but it’s so fucking good she doesn’t know how she’s going to go back to anything else. He touches every part of her, every thrust just right against that magic spot inside as she keens and whimpers and tries to stay balanced on the edge.

Ben keeps her there, a firm grip around her waist and back as he buries to the hilt on every thrust, carefully drawing every ounce of pleasure from her, dipping into reserves she didn’t even know she had as she feels her third orgasm approaching.

“Ben,” she wails, nothing left now but pants and sighs and he knows what she needs, of course he does, as he keeps the hand on her back, holding even tighter as the one at her waist travels down between them.

“I wanna feel you come on my cock, Rey. You’re gonna do it, I know you are, so good for me, that’s it,” he coaxes in time with his ministrations on her clit.

Her third climax rips through her like a bullet, fluttering walls around his cock seemingly unable to contract given his size, barely any room left to clench as she shakes and moans and a tear escapes—and it’s even better when she feels him fall over the edge too, mutual pleasure redoubling the sensation as she feels him shake, emptying inside of her.

His cum is wasted in the condom, she thinks, imagining the warmth that could’ve been, the extra drip down her thighs—but she supposes that could be saved for another fantasy, that responsibility had to have its day.

She can hardly make a sound as he pulls out of her, carefully scooping her up into his arms and walking them to the back room. There’s a small couch, and he lays her on it while he moves to dispose of the condom.

There’s not really enough space for them both, but that doesn’t stop him from gathering her in his arms and draping her across his lap, shucking off the crop top she’d nearly forgotten about, skin on skin delicious through the aftershocks.

As they come down from their shared high, she can only think of one thing to say.

“Good game.”

**Author's Note:**

> I promise they sunk all the balls, you don’t have to double check.
> 
> Berate me for this on [Twitter.](https://twitter.com/beccastanz)


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